So, if "quoth" is strictly a past tense verb that has no present tense form, is it unique? Can anyone think of any other verbs that don't have a present tense?

By the way, congrats to SRS for posting #4200 which is, of course, "the answer X 100". Hmmm.... Perhaps the question has something to do with "quoth". Perhaps if we truly understand "quoth" we'll be able to fly and generate "Somebody Else's Problem" fields and.... Nah!

Out here in Idaho we speaketh Middle English all the time, but then, this ith a pretty conthervative thtate. Jutht yethterday I wath thipping my horn of mead when thix Viking Bertherkerth tharted thwinging thwordth and axeth around. Fortunately, the polithe came and shot them with tranquilither dartth before they could doeth much damage. They are now in the County Gaol awaitingth execution.

And if you thinketh that ith harsh and cruel, you should theeth want they do to folkth who jaywalk.

You see, when I post to mudcat I translate from Idahoan -- a variant of the Northernmost quadrant of the Wester half of East South Eastern Midlands Middle English dialect -- to contemporary English. The above (a true happening) is representative of actual Idaho speech.

Speaketh is third person singular, not second plural, Mister Rapaire. "Doeth" is a singular verb, spelled "doth", and does not take the third person or the infinitive construction. The "-eth" ending does not accompany gerunds or transient verb forms such as "awaiting".

Methinks the bullshiter doth protest too much!! For you see, his eyes are open!

Right you are MM -- I was so incensed at the casual abuse of Ancient Lingo that I made two errors in my post. "Doeth" had been mis-connected with third person plural (they). It correctly associates with third person singular (He doth protest o'ermuch....).

Unless you are completely familiar with the dialect from which Idahoan derived, you are pissing in your hats. The Northernmost quadrant of the Western half of East South Eastern Midlands Middle English dialect bears almost no resemblance to the dialect of Chaucer. Indeed, it is so obscure that it rarely deviates into sense (as John Dryden so cunningly put it, although he was describing something else). Coupling that with the natural evolution of language, environmental factors necessitating changes, and the general demands of daily communication generate such contemporary sentiments as "YEEEEEEEEEEE-HAW! I'm a-bringin' them thpudth ta the KO-ral fer brandin'! Giddyup, Horthe!"

Please remember to empty your hats before returning them to your pates, and I remain,

Yore so fuller sheet yor eyes are brown an you know it too. Ah wouldn' piss in yore ear if yore brain were afahr. Them Ancient Ahdaho's you spake of were no t no way talkin' lahk you hev 'em talkin. Yore just plumb fuller it. Thet's all Ah kin say.

With this post (#4222) we are half-way to post #8444. This is significant because "8444" is or was the last four digits of the phone number of someone who is or was important enough to me that I remember that "8444" is or was the last four digits of his or her phone number. But I have no idea to whom that number belongs or belonged. Hell, it may have even been my own phone number at one time, though I'm reasonably certain it is not part of my current phone number.

I came home and opened the door. There was this Chinese girl in a slit skirt and purple lipstick. She had a cigaretter holder too. Must not have known I don't smoke. She said, "Where you been?" I said, "Who are you?" She said, "I da ho."

How odd -- this immortal being, scintillating with awareness, whose path intersects yours after thirty-three thousand two hundred and eleven lifetimes since your last encounter out beyond Deneb III, this manifestation of Eternal life and consciousness, this Cosmic playmate and companion across the millenia. And suddenly, there she is again, after thousands of years apart. And what do you see? What is it your delicately tuned awareness picks out from the chaos of raw sensory information?

A slit skirt and purple lipstick. What a mindless, degraded inventory of apperception.

Ha! "Dealt with"? I beg your pardon! Nothing is ever fully "dealt with" here in the wastelands of MOAB! You may think "quoth" is dead and buried, but it will raise its ugly head again at some point. It's inevitable. The number of words in the English language is large but finite. The amount of BS on the MOAB is "infinity minus one or, maybe, and one-half". That means that all subjects broached on the MOAB will, eventually, come back up for air at some time in the future. MOAB is a giant Catherine wheel of BS upon which we are merely pinned like bugs in some fifth-grader's insect collection, doomed to spew the same inanities again and again and again and...

Anyway, we'll all get old and decrepit soon and forget that we ever discussed "quoth" in the first place.

You know what it's like when you sort of unfocus your eyes, like maybe after you've been staring at a purple dot on a yellow background and when you look away you see the dot and you focus on that instead of something farther away and then you sort of maybe think you see something moving at the edge of your peripheral vision, or maybe out beyond the dot you're focusing on, only when you actually do focus on it there's nothing there and you wonder if somehow you've see something unknowable, or somehow been in touch with a whole new, but unseen, world that exists parallel to our own "regular" world?

The captain of a ship can perform marriage ceremonies, right? What about the captains of airliners or the drivers of Greyhound buses. And how big does the boat have to be before the captain is allowed to marry people. I have a paddle-boat in my pond that could, maybe, hold three people. Does that mean I could perform marriages in my paddleboat.

If I had a boat, I'd sail it on the ocean And if I had a pony, I'd ride it on my boat. We could all together, go out on the ocean Me upon my pony on my boat.

I think that a ship's captain has to be in international waters to perform a marriage. So, Bee-Dubya, if you want to take your paddleboat oh, say, twenty miles or so offshore, you can have at it. Best hurry, though, 'cause hurrican season quickly approacheth.

We never rode the Judiths when we were grey-wolf wild. Never gathered Powder River, Palo Duro, or John Day. No, we never rode the Judiths when their sirens preened and smiled. And we'll never ride the Judiths before they carry us away.

Cowboys cut for sign on back trails to the days that used to be Sorting, sifting through chilled ashes of the past. Or focused on some distant star, out near eternity, Always hoping that the next day will be better than the last.

Out somewhere in the future, where spring grass is growing tall, We rosin up our hopes for bigger country, better pay. But as the buckers on our buckles grow smooth-mouthed or trip and fall We know tomorrow's draw ain't gonna throw no gifts our way.

And we never rode the Judiths when we were grey-wolf bold. Never rode the Grande Ronde Canyon out north of Enterprise. No we never rode the Judiths, and we know we're getting old As old trails grow steeper, longer, right before our eyes.

My horses all are twenty-some. ..ain't no good ones coming on. The deejays and the Nashville hands won't let "... Amazed" turn gold. We're inclined to savor evening now. We usta favor dawn. Seems we're not as scared of dyin' as we are of growing old.

I wish we'd a' rode the Judiths when we were grey-wolf wild. And gathered Powder River, Palo Duro, and John Day. But we never rode the Judiths when their sirens' songs beguiled And we'll never ride the Judiths before they carry us away.

We have found the one you call Bubba Bubba. Sheithe was living in a desert part of your planet and is now in custody. Here is a picture of himither that was taken as itheshe gave himheritself into our custody. Naturally, we kept our purpose obscure to the picturetaker!

By the time you read this we will be many parsecs (we use your term here) away in the direction of the star you call "Cygnus." Bubba Bubba has caused us much trouble and cost, but we will not punish herheit as heitshe is only a few half-lives of radium old. We must forgive the young their foibles and wild oats, no?

We apologize for what happened to the city you called Seattle, but that sort of thing happens. You're all better off without all that coffee anyway.

A special note to the one called "Bee-Dubya-Ell:" you should be glad that Bubba Bubba never reached you. The pleasure, along with your DNA pattern and what passes for your brain, would have been hershisits. To obtain it involves puncturing directly into the braincase and, well, you'd call it sucking. Consider it sort of a brain hickey, but without any pleasure to you. Those who survive such a brain hickey usually degenerate into politics.

So, friends, farewell. We shall see you again, we are certain, since we do need protein now and then.

Awww. . . freds, you forgot to take along hisherits luggage. It was sitting there right beside himherit when you made the pickup. You probably even tripped over it in the process. Or were you ordered not to bring the belongings of hesheit? I predict hesheit will make such a fuss that there will be a trip back to the house just for the forbidden midden.

They say his dad was bone-deep mean; his ma had ceased to care. His sisters quit their home range and they scattered everywhere, Wherever neon glittered and booze and life was cheap. So off Zack slipped one dark night while the old man was asleep. He hitched a ride to Idaho where one sister was a whore. "Naw, she's not here," the madam said. "Been gone six months, or more." An old mustanger coming through from down Nevada way Said he could use a maverick kid his keep would be his pay. They gathered up the mustang bands and lived light off the land. Till some buckaroos and ranchers began to understand They didn't own the beef they ate nor was it store-bought Nor did they check for brands real close on cayuses they caught. Now when the law came sniffin' 'round the old man never bent. They shot him down, as young lack watched just outside their tent. "Be tough," the old man taught him, "You gotta learn t' fight." At "School for Boys" young Zack learned quick the old man was dead right. Zack never shed another tear. He never took no guff. He learned his bitter lessons well, got lean and mean and tough. Zack rode the rough strings here and there, all up and down The West. Old connoisseurs of cruelty still claim "Zack was the best." He stormed the weekend rodeos, or so old hands relate. A surgeon, with his locked-spur rowels, on stock he'd operate. The forties came, and young lack learned some crafts not used before; He honed his skills at killing in the South Pacific War. He'd finally found his place in life, new talents were refined, But then they up and told him that an armistice was signed!

He scorned the peacetime army; jeered their proffered "bars." And only missed the battlegrounds, grenades and BARs. Now most men think that war's a curse, a sojourn down in Hell. But war to lack was heaven-sent; a job that he did well. A hero – semicivilized – Zack was, when he got back. He went to GI Bill trade schools and sorta found the track Of normal life. He sparked and won an old-time rancher's prize. He beat her until finally she came to realize That though his love for her was strong he'd prob'ly take her life. She left him. But he always claimed "the bitch" was still his wife. He fought with neighbors constantly and shot their stock for spite. Some say he torched a neighbor's hay when they were gone one night. He picked a hundred fights in bars. He'd push, then take offense And beat a murder rap one time by claiming self-defense. Soon every one was terrorized. He couldn't find a fight. He finally found his enemy and killed himself one night.

If we include non-essential knowledge, the vaugrities of life, nonsense and lowsense, the poems of The Sweet Singer Of Michigan and The Great McGonigle (or however you spell it), William Shatner, freds, Ralphs, The Galactic Overlord, the Martian Invasion, and the multiplicity of other things within the pervue of MOAB, then I must protest your protest. And here, as a tale drawn from the traditions of the Navajo, is my reasoning.

Monster Slayer and his brother came to the two monsters Old Age and Illness. "Tell us," they said, "why we should not slay you." And Old Age said, "I speak for my brother Illness when I say, if you slay us, how will people appreciate Youth and Good Health? What will they have to compare to?" And The Twins knew that this was right, and left them live.

In a similar vein, I can but quote Houseman:

'TERENCE, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul's stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all the springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

If you do not know the heights, how can you explore th depths? If you do not know the worst, how can you appreciate the best? If you do not know sickness, how can you appreciate health? If you have never been sober, how can you appreciate intoxication? If you have never know sense, how can you understand nonsense?

Ah, chela, have you come to sit at the feet of the Master in your quest to enlighten yourself? Perhaps you wish to contemplate these questions?